


You Look So Pretty When You Cry

by PosseMagnet



Series: Bad Boys Get Spanked [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Brother Banter, Cock Slapping, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Consensual Non-Consent, Dom Dean Winchester, Face Slapping, Gunplay, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Name-Calling, No penetrative sex, Sibling Incest, Sub Sam Winchester, Verbal Humiliation, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 06:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13518282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PosseMagnet/pseuds/PosseMagnet
Summary: The smell of gun oil fills Sam’s nose. It comes from Dean, who perpetually smells of it. But it also comes from Dean’s 1911, which is snugged against Sam’s temple. Dean’s pressing it into the soft dip in his skull. Drops of Sam’s sweat slide over the shiny steel barrel.





	You Look So Pretty When You Cry

**Author's Note:**

> Parts of this fic definitely have a non-con feeling. I would be remiss if I didn't pop in to say this scene is _entirely_ consensual. 
> 
> But if you find non-con sort of stuff triggering, this fic might not be your cuppa tea. If guns bother you, this fic might not be your cuppa tea. 
> 
> If you're still with me... Onward pervs!

The smell of gun oil fills Sam’s nose. It comes from Dean, who perpetually smells of it. But it also comes from Dean’s 1911, which is snugged against Sam’s temple. Dean’s pressing it into the soft dip in his skull. Drops of Sam’s sweat slide over the shiny steel barrel.

Sam knows the gun _must_ be unloaded. Hell, Dean’s probably got the safety on too, just because Dean is extra thorough when it comes to Sam. But it still gets Sam’s dick wet when Dean slides the barrel over his scruffy jawline and presses it hard under Sam’s chin. It stretches his neck, cleft chin pointed sharply up, tendons standing out like a roadmap of places Dean wants to _bitemarkchewbruise_.

Dean’s pressed up against him, grinding against Sam, leaking into his jeans from the oppressive crush of the zipper on the underside of his cock. Dean can’t tongue fuck Sam’s mouth, because Sam’s teeth are pressed tightly together, so he bites down on the kiss-swollen meat of Sam’s lip and sucks a mark into the tender flesh.

Dean stands, and the pressure under Sam’s chin eases. He lets his mouth fall open, wiggling his jaw to loosen the muscles. He isn’t paying attention, until Dean’s gun slips past his lips. It’s heavy on his tongue, and the gun oil he could only smell before explodes on his taste buds. The barrel is cool, but it warms quickly in the river of drool that courses over his tongue and rolls down his chin. The nub of the gun’s sight digs into the roof of his mouth when it’s slid to the back of his tongue.

Dean roughly pushes his jeans down just enough to get his dick out. He grips it around the base and slaps Sam’s cheek with the hefty weight of it. “Suck it,” Dean growls, and the way the pistol is pushing into his gag reflex makes it obvious Dean doesn’t mean his cock. Another slap on his cheek finally gets his mouth moving. His tongue curls along the long, thick barrel, tracing the ornate curves of the scrollwork etched along the sides. 

Drool runs steadily down his chin, soaking his t-shirt, pitter-pattering onto his lap. Dean swipes at the drool and uses it to slick his cock. One hand is still fucking Sam’s mouth with the pistol, the other he uses to jack his dick, occasionally pausing to slap it against Sam’s cheek, leaving splotches of precome on the reddening skin. 

Sam is hard and achy, and still fully clothed. He grinds the heel of his hand into his crotch, rocking his hips, desperate for relief. The pistol is fucking deep enough into him to gag him now, and tears roll down his face. “Such a pretty little bitch,” Dean snarls, “Little slut. Bet you can’t wait to get my dick in that throat. Wanna gag for me, slut? Choke on my big cock? Bet you’d fucking cream your shorts if I choked you with it. You’re already crying like a bitch and this is just my gun you’re gagging on. Fucking slut.”

Dean slaps him with his hand this time. It’s open-handed, but it still stings like fuck because Dean didn’t sissy the blow. Spit and tears fly off his face, and the gun clacks against his teeth when his head snaps to the side. 

Arousal shoots through Sam, burning down his spine like fire. It coils in his balls and draws them up tight to his body. He chokes out a sob as the pistol slots into his throat, forcing past his gag reflex until the trigger guard rests in the cleft of his chin. His face is covered in tears and snot and if he weren’t deep throating a fucking gun right now he’d be begging to bust his nut.

Then Dean thumbs back the hammer with a sinister click.

Sam comes in his pants immediately, cock bucking and kicking, soaking his boxers. The muzzle of the pistol withdraws, letting him woof in a breath, which makes his head spin, prolonging the spasms that are kicking an impossible amount of jizz into his slobber-soaked pants.

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean curses when Sam sags against the chair he’s sitting in. “That was sexy as fuck.” He drops to his knees in front of Sam. He pulls his soft flannel off and uses it to mop up the mess on Sam’s face. 

His voice is whiskey rough when he pants, “Thanks. I mean… Thank you. That was perfect, Dean.”

“You’re welcome, baby boy. So good for me,” he kisses the bruise he sucked into Sam’s lip. Standing, he tucks himself back into his jeans, only to have Sam grab his pants leg. 

“Dean, you didn’t though…” he eyes Dean’s still stiff cock. “Lemme—"

“Nah, no, Sam,” he puts his hand up to silence his brother. “It’s okay. Your throat… I’ll take care of it in the shower. You can come with, if you want, and I can get you cleaned up.”

Sam blinks at Dean, then nods, rising to follow him into the bathroom. They’re peeling their clothes off and Dean snorts a laugh, “You dirty fucker, you came when I cocked the gun,” he grins at Sam, “That was so fucking hot.”

Sam’s cheeks flush pink and Dean shoves his shoulder, “Dude. Don’t you dare blush. It was good. Better than good actually.” He pauses, thoughtfully. “Just don’t go acting like Checkov’s dogs. We can’t have you coming in your pants every time we’re in a firefight. It’ll ruin our rep.”

“Pavlov, Dean,” Sam corrects.

“Uhm… G’ bless you?” Dean replies.

“Pavlov’s dogs,” Sam explains, “Pavlov was the scientist that experimented with dogs. Chekov is the navigator from Star Trek.”

Dean steps into the shower, water cascading over body. He snorts, “Nerd,” and pulls Sam to join him under the warm spray.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Pistol Whipped by Marilyn Manson


End file.
